She opened the door to her apartment without looking, expecting a lost pizza guy. When she saw him she paused for a second, then smiled.
"This is unexpected, come in."
He moved passed her, taking in the new place.
"You're living on your own now?"
"Yeah, I thought it was time. Can I get you a drink, a glass of wine or something?"
"Sure."
He sat on one of the stools by the kitchen island and surveyed her as she poured. She looked the same as she had before, longer hair maybe, but otherwise the same. She was wearing a little tank top and black tights that hugged her ass and thighs. He continued his examination as she brought over the wine. It didn't matter that she could see him doing it, after all that was his right.
She set the glass down in front of him, conscious of his gaze and the fact that her hard nipples were pressing against the thin material of her shirt. She stared back at him, defying him to say something.
"So how have you been?"
She felt more than a twinge of disappointment at the mundane overture.
They talked in this vein for about half an hour, and poured two more glasses of wine, before he told her the news.
"I'm engaged."
"My wedding invitation must have been lost in the mail."
She smirked. Not missing a beat. He didn't say anything. After a moment she stood and stepped in front of him, placing her glass on the stool between his legs.
"Why did you come here to tell me that? You don't owe me anything. Or are you asking me to be in the wedding party?"
The sarcasm dripped from her voice. She leaned towards him, close, her hands resting on his legs.
"Or maybe you want to rub it in my face. You know, I liked it better when you used to rub other things in my face. Do you remember?"
His reacted, leaning away and hitting her hard across the face with the back of his hand. She reeled back, spilling her glass of wine as she stumbled. Calm again, he picked up his own glass and took a sip.
"Look at this mess. You'd better clean it up."
She mutely turned towards the kitchen, presumably to find something to soak up the wine.
"No, lick it up."
Those words sent a pulse through her that made her pussy ache. But she hesitated. He looked at her expectantly. She got down on her hands and knees, and started to slurp the spilled wine of the floor.
He watched her, not surprised by the turn of events so much as the speed with which they had unfolded. He reflected that no matter what he told himself, or anyone else, he was addicted to the feeling of power and ownership as much as she loved the pain and shame of being owned. It was undeniable in person, which is why their contact had been limited to texting and email in the years previous. Those years of suppressed aggression throbbed in his cock. It wasn't that he hadn't found release, just that he hadn't found another whose own pleasure increased proportionally with the depravity of his demands. And they had left so many avenues unexplored, so many things to teach her.
She was doing her best to lap up the wine as he had ordered but she was distracted by the wetness pooling between her legs. How many times had she fantasized about being his again, how many times had she come thinking about slaving for him, or even him and the now-fiancee whom she had imagined as sharing his tastes. She loved this game and felt a small sense of victory that she had provoked him into playing, after all the years he had spent tempting her away from her constructed conventionality. Is he not fucking you, he would ask. Not the way you do, was always her unspoken reply. The truth was he had ruined her, he hurt her and humiliated her and those two things were hardwired together with pleasure in her mind.
She finished cleaning up her mess and knelt in front of him. He knew this was the moment to leave if he had any hope of reconciling his actions with his conscious. But she peeled of her clothes, resuming her position at his feet in the tiniest black thong.
"Please."
